


The Right Thing

by kenopsiaa



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 07:46:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7524406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenopsiaa/pseuds/kenopsiaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal never wanted to be a killer. Now he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Thing

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Neal wasn't supposed to be being chased along the high rooftops of the Upper East Side by a member of the Russian mob while the FBI team's reaction time was five minutes behind them.

Everything in the undercover op had been going according to plan; Neal was posing as a renowned poker player with a seat in one of the many underground games, arranging to help the head of the mob, Viktor, win every time. The FBI had figured out that the leader was already rigging almost every game, and to catch him, Neal had pretended to be on his side in order to extract a confession. But the guy was smart, and he'd made Neal out as a fed. So, deciding to do what he did best, Neal took off running.

Peter's voice was in his ear, rattling off commands; but Neal hardly heard him, his only focus on the mobster hot on his heels. It was a good thing Neal was quick, or he'd have been a dead man a few blocks back.

The edge of the roof they were sprinting across was fast-approaching, and Neal didn't have a split-second of hesitation before leaping across the dangerously-wide partition and onto the next building, slightly lower in height. Viktor imitated him, but he failed to land as gracefully as Neal had, and his stumble luckily bought Neal a few seconds head start.

He caught up quickly, though, and Neal pushed himself to increase his pace. His heartbeat was hammering in his ears, and his legs burned from exertion; he had no idea where he was running to, but he couldn't stop until Peter and the team located them. He had to stall, and hopefully wear Viktor out enough that Neal could escape.

The sound a gunshot behind him made Neal flinch, and he only became aware of the bullet that flew past his ear after it had passed. Viktor had surprising accuracy, given that he was chasing Neal at a full-on sprint.

But that flinch had caused him to trip, and a second later he was somersaulting onto the small rocks that covered this particular rooftop. He tried to scramble to his feet, preparing himself for a brawl, but then Viktor was pinning him down, delivering blows to his jaw and eyes and cheekbones.

Neal struggled with him, primarily focused on the gun Viktor still held in the hand that wasn't beating up his face. With his own hands Neal tried to seize the weapon, or at least make his best attempt to keep it pointed away from him while he felt bruises and blood appearing on his skin. Viktor had the same idea, only he was making sure the barrel was aimed at him.

With all the strength he could muster, Neal grunted and pushed against Viktor's force, but his success decreased when he felt the gun pressing hard into his chest. And with the mobster laying on top of him, there wasn't any room for Neal to move it.

But he wasn't giving up yet. Neal wiggled his upper body was much as he could, fighting with Viktor's hands get take control of the weapon. If he could do that, he might have a chance at beating this guy. Just a bit of control - that was all he needed. 

What happened next was a blur in sped-up motion. One moment, Neal was losing in a wrestle over the gun, positive that the bullet was going to end up lodged in his heart; but in the next, he was pulling the trigger, and Viktor fell in a motionless heap on top of him.

With the gunshot still reverberating deafeningly in the open air, Neal shoved Viktor away. He was just getting to his feet when Peter, Jones and Diana arrived.

"Neal," Peter rushed forward, observing the scene and holstering his own gun. "We heard gunshots - are you alright?"

The younger man, still breathless from his extended sprint and all-together obstacle course, only nodded. His gaze fell upon Viktor, who was lying on his back now, and finally saw the alarming amount of blood spilling from his chest. Neal knew he was dead before EMT checked it out. The gun fell from his grasp as he realized what he had done. "I killed him," he whispered shakily, eyeing his right hand - the hand he'd pulled the trigger with - in horror. 

Jones was examining Neal's face. "He did quite some damage to you," he remarked, as if he hadn't heard what Neal admitted. Honestly, he'd completely forgotten about the injuries Viktor left on him; they were nothing compared to the strange feeling in his fingers. He had used a gun before, but never to kill a man - and for some reason, using it to take a life felt so much different. Worse. 

Peter came into view, placing a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Come on, let's get you home."

* * *

After Neal gave an official statement of what happened, Peter ended up driving him back to his house in Brooklyn, where Elizabeth was waiting up for them. The sky was swathed in darkness now; in all the commotion of the chase, Neal hadn't noticed how quickly the sun had set below the rooftops they'd run across.

He had to remove his shirt so Elizabeth could examine the injuries all over his torso, and Neal was grateful to be rid of the fabric with Viktor's blood on it. He'd remained perfectly still as she tended to his wounds, concluding that no stitches were necessary and no bones had been broken. And after cleaning his cuts with disinfectant and bringing him one of Peter's tee shirts, she retrieved an icepack from the freezer and instructed that he hold it to his blossoming bruises. When she'd finished, Neal murmured a thank you, to which she left a soft kiss on an untouched area of his cheek and retired upstairs, leaving Neal to himself for a few moments.

In the silence of the Burke's living room, he sat on the sofa, condensation from the icepack dripping slowly through his fingers. The adrenaline from the chase had drained his body, leaving his muscles tired and sore. He was absolutely spent, but he had the sinking feeling that he wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight. Every time he closed his eyes, if even for a moment of rest on the safety of this couch, he saw Viktor and that vividly-bright red staining the pure white of his shirt.

Briefly, Neal recalled his father and how he'd been put away for murder. How on Earth his dad had been able to stand over that innocent man, point a gun at him and pull the trigger... It was sickening, horrifying to take someone's life, no matter how evil or crooked they were. No one deserved such a sudden death like that, and Neal was disgusted by himself for doing it to Viktor. There were very few things in life he hated more than violence, even if he'd been forced to use it in self-defense. He never wanted to be a killer. Now he was.

Peter returned to the living room, having gone upstairs to change his clothes and most likely to speak briefly with Elizabeth. When he saw Neal, his stride slowed as he approached the armchair opposite the couch. "How you holdin' up?" He asked quietly, leaning forward with his hands folded together.

Neal exhaled shakily, "Elizabeth said I should heal up okay."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." Neal gave up on the icepack, resorting to hold loosely it in his hands instead. He met Peter's eyes, not fond of the expression he saw there. "I wish you'd gotten there sooner."

"I'm so sorry we didn't." If they had, Neal wouldn't have had to pull that trigger, and he wouldn't be feeling like this right now. "You did what you needed to do, Neal," he continued, seeming to read Neal's thoughts.

"I still killed him, Peter," he whispered. "I took a human life."

"Viktor was gonna shoot you if you hadn't stopped him. He would have killed you without a second thought. You did the right thing, Neal."

Neal bowed his head; he didn't do the right thing. What he did wasn't the right thing at all. No matter how bad of a man Viktor was, he was still a man. He had a family somewhere, people who cared about him and needed him and loved him very much. Neal wasn't sure he'd ever be able to make peace with the fact that he ruined those people's lives. He was the person who took away their loved one. He was responsible for this - their grief, their pain, their loss. It was almost unbearable, this newly acquired weight on his heart.

"It's good to feel remorse," Peter remarked softly. "That's how you know you're not like them - the crooked ones."

He could still feel the backfire of the gun reverberating up his arm; he clenched his bruised hand into a fist to cease the trembling. The wounds that decorated his body were beginning to ache now, but he'd take them any day over what he did to Viktor.

"It's probably hard to believe, but I know how you're feeling," he went on. "Trust me - with time, it's gonna get easier. You won't feel like this forever, I promise."

Even though Neal struggled to believe Peter's words, he hung onto them because it was Peter they came from. Neal trusted him - found comfort in his familiarity, his soft voice and gentle eyes. If Peter said it would get better, Neal had hope that it would. "I should head home," he murmured after a long moment, setting the thawed icepack onto the coffee table. 

"You're welcome to stay."

Neal wanted to take the offer, since he really didn't want to be alone right now, but he would have to go eventually. The longer he waited, the harder it would be to accept that. "Thanks, but... I shouldn't."

Peter nodded and walked him to the door, and just as he was about to leave he placed a warm, heavy hand on Neal's shoulder. Neal stopped in his tracks, his eyes closing as he welcomed the solace it brought. He leaned into Peter, and then accepted the embrace he offered when his arms wrapped gently around his back. It was a simple gesture, but it was exactly what Neal needed: comfort from his best friend, a sincere reassurance that he wasn't alone. Peter's hand pressed against the back of Neal's neck as he whispered, "You're gonna be okay."

He buried his face in Peter's chest, allowing himself one moment of vulnerability before he regained his composure and pulled away. "Thank you, Peter."

And then he stepped out into the bitter night air, conscious of Peter's eyes on him as he started toward home. 


End file.
